


Unalone Again

by schweinsty



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-26
Updated: 2014-03-26
Packaged: 2018-01-17 02:11:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1370068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schweinsty/pseuds/schweinsty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>D'Artagnan is injured during an ambush, and the others take care of him. Gratuitous h/c.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unalone Again

He is not lonely in Gascony, although Lupiac is not a very large place and he does not have much time for dallying with the friends he has. His father is fine enough company for working days, and when either of them has a spare moment anyway his father teaches him the sword. D'Artagnan toasts the occasional cup on Sunday evenings with the other young men of the area, and after that sometimes he walks out with Bernadette or Alaine or Camille and struts home in the morning to his father's knowing grin and a cuff about his head if he's slow with sleep and tiredness at his chores.

Then, on the road to Paris, his father's murdered and d'Artagnan is alone.

 

"Naturally, I suggested the kitchen." Aramis's voice carries up the road quite clearly to where Athos and d'Artagnan share a look, and Porthos, at Aramis's side, snorts in disbelief. "Of course, that was before I knew her husband had a--"

Three things happen then quite suddenly: first, d'Artagnan hears a twig snap under Buttercups step rather more loudly than usual; second, Athos jerks his horse to a stop and wheels halfway round with a pistol in his hand, and there's a muffled shout that sounds like it might come from him; lastly, d'Artagnan's hands, which previously held Buttercup's reins obediently, cease at once to follow his commands and let the reins go slack.

And before d'Artangan can puzzle that bit out and bring a now-terrfied Buttercup under control, his legs and feet and chest as well go numb, and he pitches quietly to the side and tumbles off his saddle.

Everything goes a little fuzzy after that.

There are shots, and footsteps running past, and the familiar _whisk_ of swords drawn from their sheaths, and d'Artagnan tells himself he'll get up and join the fighting...

any minute now...

only the ground is rather unaccountably comfortable, and drawing breath keeps him busy enough as it is, each expansion of his chest a trial, and he must find, he thinks, why the sky and trees and clouds have chosen this moment to dull and grey before his eyes...

 

"D'Artagnan. D'Artagnan."

D'Artagnan blinks and wonders when he shut his eyes. Evening clearly has come on since then, the darkness hanging heavily enough above his eyes that only the muttered thanks to God and a few stray, wild wisps of hair tell d'Artagnan who it is that's knelt beside him amid the still-ongoing clang of battle. 

"Aramis," d'Artagnan tries to say. He coughs instead and tries to sit upright so he can breathe, but Aramis, the bastard, holds him down instead.

"Don't try to move. Your wound is grave enough already." Aramis waits patiently beside him as the fit passes, leaving d'Artagnan weak and shivering. D'Artagnan can still hear fighting down the road, but it's fainter and punctuated by the sound of men taking to their feet and running.

Then d'Artganan hears a piece of fabric rip, and Aramis is fiddling with his shirt, and--

"Hold still," Aramis tells him. "Just focus on me."

\--and holy virgin mary mother of god good fuck but that hurts and what, is Aramis trying to kill him? Because--

"Oh, good," Aramis mutters with a measure of relief, and d'Artagnan wishes it weren't so dark and he weren't so tired so he could throttle the man in comfort--

But Aramis's voice is joined by other murmurs in the dark, and two fuzzy but familiar figures join his at d'Artagnan's side.

Aramis shifts to look at the other two as he asks something too low for d'Artagnan to hear, and d'Artagnan finds his hands moving almost of their own volition towards Aramis's where they hold the torn-up shirt. But another pair of hands (whose callouses d'Artagnan knows so well from training) latch onto d'Artagnan's wrists and hold them still.

"How is he?"

"We need to get him somewhere so I can work on him."

It's less Aramis's clipped tone than the fact that he didn't answer Athos's question that has d'Artagnan worried, because Aramis never likes anyone to think that he doesn't know something that he does.

D'Artagnan blinks again, and when his eyelids finally peel apart again Aramis is tying a know in the bandages around his waist, and it hurts so much d'Artagnan's eyes burn.

"You ready?" mutters a deep voice from somewhere near d'Artagnan's head.

"On three," answers someone near his feet.

His friends count down, and d'Artagnan notices with some surprise that, though trees and grass and road are even greyer than before, the sun's still hanging bright and shining in the sky above them.

And then on Porthos's 'one' they lift him up, and all thoughts of any coherence fly out of d'Artagnan's head.

 

Later he remembers bits and pieces that don't make sense entirely by themselves: the smell of Athos on the extra cloak draped round his shoulders; Porthos's grip so gentle on his shoulders as they lift him on the horse; in between the haze of pain as he grips the hands that grip the reins in front of him, murmurs in the vague vicinity of his ear that d'Artagnan barely recognizes to be Aramis's voice in frantic prayer.

They stop eventually, at something that might possibly be an inn, and Athos helps d'Artagnan down and carries him inside.

His hands shake underneath d'Artagnan's shoulders and legs, and it's only then that d'Artagnan realizes that he's probably going to die.

"I'm sorry," he tries, and he must get most of it across, because Athos gives him his darkest look and tells d'Artangan to save his strength.

"You'll need it," he says as he sweeps into the nearest bedroom over the inkeeper's protests and sets d'Artagnan on a bed as softly as a brand new father laying down a babe.

Then the world goes soft around the edges, and the next thing d'Artagnan is aware of is hustle and bustle and the now-familiar clink of Aramis's tool kit, then of "Athos, Porthos, hold him down."

The next part hurts so much d'Artagnan vomits in his mouth, and Athos has to help him turn his head to the side so that he doesn't choke on it. The bile dribbles over Athos's fine leather glove, and d'Artagnan wishes he could draw breath long enough to apologize again.

The darkness when it comes this time is as welcome as it's blessed.

 

The next time d'Artagnan wakes he knows he's out of danger, for he's in far to much pain to be dead yet all the musketeers around him are sprawled, asleep, on beds beside him.

However, it doesn't take too long for this to change. One aborted attempt to sit up and a short groan later, Porthos wakes up, crosses the room, and adjusts d'Artagnan's pillows in the blink of an eye.

"Gave Aramis a scare," says Porthos once d'Artagnan's settled less uncomfortably on the freshly-made bed. "But don't tell him I told you that."

D'Artagnan snickers before he thinks better of it, and next thing he knows he's clutching Porthos's forearm like a lifeline and Athos and Aramis hover over him in their smalls with hair so rumpled they look wild.

"Try not to ruin my work before sunset." Aramis frowns and lowers d'Artagnan's blankets for a quick check on his handiwork. "It's my finest yet."

D'Artagnan nods, but it's to Athos that he looks. Athos, who looks calm and collected but whose hands fidget and who shifts his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other as he rarely has before. There's so much that d'Artagnan wants to say: thanks for saving his life and letting him retch all over them, no doubt, and for being his brothers though he's only known them several months, and there's so much that he wants to mull over in peace (like the fact that though he's lost the last of his born family, he's never had so much to live for) but now he's tired and his eyes are heavy, and the dull, persistent ache that plagues his side is starting to sharpen and define itself into a new, keen agony of torture. So d'Artagnan looks to their de facto leader for permission, and Athos nods and lets his lips quirk just a bit up at their corners.

"Go to sleep," he says, and brushes d'Artagnan's hair from his forehead with a feather touch. "We'll be here when you wake up."

And d'Artagnan knows they will.


End file.
